


The Gun In My Hand

by wordswordswords7



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Crime Scenes, M/M, Military Backstory, POV First Person, POV John Watson, PTSD John, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 07:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6972397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswordswords7/pseuds/wordswordswords7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is struggling to get back to rights after Sherlock returns from the dead, and the other man isn't helping matters. When Harry Watson is found shot to death in her home, old secrets come to light and John finds himself drowning in the implications. And if that weren't bad enough, the shooter turns out to be an old ghost from his military past come to finish him off.</p><p>How can one person's life so completely go to shit in the span of a few days?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [TRIGGER WARNING: there is mentioned incest and child abuse in this story. It doesn't go into detail but it is referenced.]
> 
> This story was originally written with gender bent femme characters, but a reader's comment about it reading well as M/M inspired me to release a version of the story where John and Sherlock are not ladies. That said, PLEASE tell me if I missed any feminine pronouns anywhere, or if John inexplicably turns into Joanna at any point...
> 
> Find the original story under the title 'The Gun In My Hand [Genderbent]' in my Works!

Chapter One

 

We are called out to a crime seen in the middle of a pretty spectacular row.

            I'm in the kitchen, shopping bags forgotten on the table beside me, taking a tongue lashing for suggesting Sherlock take a case from Mycroft to stave off the boredom.

            “That is the fourth time, John,” he growls at me from his place in front of the living room windows. He's got a finger pointed at me and his voice is thick with irritation. “Four times you've suggested I call my brother this week! Stop dithering around here, forcing your idiotic opinions on me! I am not so bored as to _need_ ,” he says the word as if it tastes revolting on his tongue, “your interference, or Mycroft's for that matter. If you need something to occupy the apparently copious amount of time usually spent hovering over _me_ , I suggest you call up any one of the whorish bints you so disgustingly salivate over the rest of the time!”

            I simply stare at him. Slowly, carefully, I let my face go blank but cannot force my hands to unclench from the fists they've formed at my sides.

            “Fine,” I say tersely. “Fine, I'll get out of your hair.”

            I move to the door and have just grabbed my jacket when his phone _pings_ with a new text. I'm down the stairs and out the front door, fuming, when he suddenly catches up to me.

            “There's been a murder, Lestrade requires our assistance.”

            I don't stop to look at him, instead I continue down Baker Street in the direction of Sarah's flat.

            “Have fun with that,” I snap over my shoulder.

            Sherlock's hand is suddenly clamped around my elbow. When I jolt to a stop with an almost imperceptible gasp he lets go immediately.

            He knows not to catch me unawares. He _knows_ my nerves are constantly brimming under the surface. I whip around to glare at him the second I've regained control over the undue panic.

            “What?” I seethe.

            Something like guilt flashes briefly across his features but is quickly replaced with haughty indifference.

            “Lestrade requires _both_ of us.”

            It takes everything in me to force myself into the taxi Sherlock waves down.

 

* * *

  

            The sight inside the church makes me fall back a few steps while Sherlock strides forward, pushing past me undeterred. The structure is not a large one, and I can make out a fair amount of detail from where I'm frozen just inside the doors. Lestrade gives me a raised brow look and I give my head a small shake at his silent question, marching forward. _I'm fine, I've seen worse._

            Except that 'worse' is relative.

            Because while I've seen both grisly and subtle deaths, this murder holds a court of its own. The girl (no older than eighteen) has been placed naked before the alter, her body curled forward on his knees, stiff elbows bent on the steps to the dais as if in prayer. Petit wrists and ankles are bound with ribbon and her palms are pressed together to further affirm the illusion of supplication. Because her back is facing me and her head is bowed against her hands, for a moment I'm horrified to think she's been beheaded.

            I can't stop the shaky sigh of relief when I see her strawberry blond locks exactly where they ought to be. She's been blindfolded and gagged with the same thick ribbon binding her extremities. Sherlock casts me a dark look, clearly annoyed by my inability to contain myself. I ignore him and turn to Lestrade.

            “What's her name?”

            His mouth is set in a grim line and he runs a hand through his silver-grey hair. “Marie Debussy, according to the vicar.” He points to the corner where a pale-faced man stands with Donovan looking as though he might be sick. From the acrid smell coming from behind the alter I think he may already have been. “She's the daughter of two of his regular parishioners, but we'll have to bring them to the morgue later to confirm.”

            “The daughter of, but not a regular herself.” It's not a question and Sherlock goes back to examining the body and ignoring us once he's said it.

            His statement sends an icy cold spreading through my veins. Marie's head is bowed, her frizzy curls and her hands covering her face; the only part of her not on display.

            “How did he recognize her than?”

            I almost don't recognize my voice through the biting flatness of my tone.

            The underlying question settles heavily between us and Greg turns a stony look to the robed man, but Sherlock is shaking his head. “The vicar didn't do it. There's a distinct birthmark on the back of the victim's left hand, very identifiable. He'll have recognized it from when she attended services with her parents. That the body was left _here_ is obvious, as is the motive. The killer knew this woman. Has known her for quite some time I should think.”

            I sigh and run a hand through my hair. I'm in entirely no mood to be in awe of him right now, and the tension in my gut is winding tighter by the minute.

            “Spell it out for us would you?” I snap.

            He shoots me that look, that analytical piercing look that tells me he's trying to figure me out. I stare right back at his unflinchingly. I know Sherlock well and I know the annoyed frown pulling at the corners of his mouth means he hasn't been successful at deducing me.

            Good.

            “Well?” Lestrade is losing his patience as well.

            He tears his eyes away from mine and motions lazily to Marie Debussy's body. “She's clean, but too clean so the killer washed her down before displaying the body; he even filed her nails and polished them.” I kneel to take a closer look and he's right, the finger and toe nails look as though they've had professional attention, even if it's only a clear gloss that coats them. “By the bruises and rug burn on her knees and back we can deduce that Miss Debussy was a prostitute and so has been living away from home for quite some time – my guess is over a year, considering the extent of the track marks on her person.” I look and feel ill when I see the needle impressions are not confined to the girl's arms. “Her parents were regulars at this church, for long enough that the priest would recognize the victim even after she'd left home – recognized her by a birthmark so it would be likely that the family has attended for years. This fact must be known to the killer. He could have displayed her at any church, but he chose this one so he knew of her past or else has known her for quite some time. He has positioned her in the form of prayer, but not only that, she's been bound, gagged and blindfolded with white ribbon – white being a representative of purification and virginity amongst other things. The killer believes she is unworthy of seeing or speaking to,” Sherlock gestures flippantly to the cross on the wall behind the alter and rolls his eyes, “ _God_. He's set her up to beg for forgiveness for her sins. I think, in all likelihood, Molly will find she's been sexually assaulted.”

            At this point I'm kneeling beside the body, taking in the bruising and the evidence of this young woman's life. I look up at the cross before me and feel something within myself hardening. Pushing myself to my feet I join Lestrade as he looks at the body as if in a new light.

            “The sick bastard.”

            Neither Sherlock nor I disagree.

            “Cause of death, John?” Sherlock demands.

            My whole body bristles with annoyance. The answer is so obvious that even the vicar could probably tell him.

            “Throat slashed,” I say flatly. “Not here though – somewhere else. She didn't bleed out here.”

            Sherlock simply nods and goes off to inspect the rest of the crime scene. While he flits around the church I turn to Lestrade.

            “So why did you need me here?” I ask, unable to shake the terse tone from my voice even though it's not directed at him.

            He gives me a befuddled look. “What do you mean? Yesterday you were begging me to find something for Sherlock. I thought this would be interesting enough.”

            I shake my head, “No, me specifically. He said you needed both of us. What am I doing here that he can't, Greg?”

            I've only confused him more though, because he shakes his head and looks back at Sherlock as he berates Anderson. “Not that I don't appreciate you coming John, believe me you make him bearable, but I didn't insist he bring you. I assumed you would both be coming when I texted the details, but I never specified.”

            I shoot a dark look at the consulting detective and count to ten in my head.

            “Did um...has something happened between you two?” Lestrade looks uncomfortable asking, but by now even he must feel the infuriated chill emanating off me.

            I ignore his question. “I've got to go. Text me if you need me, but honestly I don't imagine I'll be able to tell you anything about this case that he can't.”

            I stalk out of the church, unnoticed by Sherlock, and catch a cab on the main road.

            I'm furious with him, but in all honesty I'm even more upset with myself. I couldn't even walk out on a fight properly! I've become so obedient to every whim of Sherlock Holmes that I'll disregard his calling my girlfriends whores and follow him diligently like a dog! And he _knew_ that I'd come.

            The cab drops me off at the flat where I bypass the living room and go right up to the third floor. I pull my old duffel out of the wardrobe and lay it open on my bed.

            I need space. I need air. I need to be away from the withering looks and biting remarks that come hand-in-hand with Sherlock's manic nature. I neatly pack away my laptop, some clothes, and my toiletry kit. I consider my options.

            Sarah will probably let me crash on her sofa for a night or two, but I know that I've used her for this too many times and that guilt stops me from calling her. I could call Mike Stamford, but his wife's never liked me and I don't suppose she'd take too kindly to me spending the night. I don't even stop to consider Harry.

            Finally I sigh and zip up the bag. A cheap hotel it is than. I'd taken as many hours at the surgery as I could get once The Work had slowed and Sherlock had become unbearable. I've made enough extra money that a night or two away won't dip too deeply into my savings.

            The gun in my nightstand is the last thing I grab, stowing it away neatly.

            By the time Sherlock even notices I've left the church, I'll be far enough away to finally catch my breath. 

 

* * *

  

            He doesn't text me until I've been gone from the crime scene for two hours.

 

_Where did you go? SH_

           

            I ignore it.

 

_Meet me at Angelo's. 6pm. SH_

 

_Are you not coming? SH_

 

_John where have you gone? SH_

 

_Why have you packed a bag? SH_

 

_You've taken your gun with you, why? SH_

 

_Don't be petty. SH_

 

_John text me back, this is childish. SH_

 

            I snort at that. I'm the childish one?

 

_At least let me know you're alright. SH_

 

            I turn off my mobile.

            When it becomes clear that I will not be falling asleep, I decide to take a shower to help clear my head. The hot water works the kinks out of my knotted back muscles and I lean my forehead against the tiles.

            The relationship between Sherlock and I has been strenuous at best since his return from the grave less than six months ago. A year he'd been gone. A year with me working myself sick to avoid my grief. Sherlock's faked suicide had pushed me back into my post-Afghanistan haze, wading through uncertainty without any purpose to anchor and solidify me. More than once I had looked down the barrel of my gun, considering my options. Every time I had gently disarmed the firearm, stowed it away, and waited. Waited until I was needed back at the surgery – _needed_ by someone's injury, made _useful_ by someone else's illness. It became routine. Work, sleep, gun, work, sleep, gun, work, sleep, gun. It had gone on for months until one day I had walked into 221B to find Mrs. Hudson coming down the stairs, tears streaming, hand over her heart. She'd simply given me a watery smile and left me alone before I could ask her what had happened.

            And Sherlock had been waiting for me. Standing in front of those windows, just like he had done this afternoon. Only, six months ago he had been looking at me with worry not anger. Six months ago he had caught me when I'd passed out and then looked guilty when I'd shoved him away upon waking up. He'd been all explanations and contriteness. He had explained the snipers and his year long mission to disassemble Moriarty's web. He had even put up with the resulting panic attack and the habitual pulse checking that had gone on for weeks afterwards. He'd not said a word every time I'd woken from a nightmare only to stumble down the stairs to check if he was still breathing. And when he knew that I was ready for it, he went back to giving me his exasperated looks and biting remarks.

            And I, reeling from loss to resurrection, had drunk him in like liquor. My anger had not lasted long, quickly replaced with relief. Even during the initial media frenzy that had followed, I'd stood at his side as loyal as ever. His name had been cleared months ago by Mycroft (the whole Richard Brook ordeal had been set to rest long before Sherlock's return), so I had stood there with pride, knowing that I'd been right about him all along.

            Until, of course, I had realized that I could no longer trust him.

            It had hit me suddenly one night when I had found myself driven to his bedroom after waking from a nightmare. I'd quietly sunk to my knees beside the bed and placed the back of my hand in front of his mouth, reassured by the steady breath that puffed back against my sweat-chilled skin. The realization had hit me abruptly, making me snatch my hand away. I couldn't trust him. Not to leave me when he saw fit. Not to make life-changing decisions without me knowing. I couldn't trust Sherlock not to ruin me again.

            And so the last six months have seen me living on edge, sure that one day I'll wake up and he'll have left once more. Sure that one day soon I'll be staring down the barrel of my gun unhindered by the routine that had stayed my trigger finger for an entire year.

            This morning's row has only solidified that distrust; has made me see my loyalty as pathetic neediness. His thoughtless words have severed something between us and I realize as I stand in this hotel shower that I don't have to be the one who gets left behind.

            I turn the water off and step out of the shower, finally exhausted enough to pull on a vest and pants and fall into bed. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

           

            I'm woken up by the rapid gunfire in my dreams transitioning into steady knocking on my door in the early hours of the morning. I clutch at the old bullet wound and try to catch my breath. A blurry look at the alarm clock next to the bed tells me it's coming up on 3AM and my gut clenches residually from the nightmare but also in rapt anticipation. My hand curls around the gun under my pillow, and I slip out of bed and stretch to see through the peephole in the door.

            Anthea stares back at me.

            I hide the gun.

            “What the hell?” I demand of her groggily.

            “Did you know your phone's off?” she replies as I let her into the room.

            “Well that's the point, isn't it?”

            She gives me a critical look then gestures to the now closed door. “You need to come with me.”

            I shake my head slightly in disbelief. “Why? How did you even know I was here? No, don't answer that – tracking me from Baker Street to here was probably child's play for Mycroft.”

            She doesn't reply, only looks pointedly to my open duffel and the clothes within it.

            “And why is it you think I'll be leaving the comfort of my bed to be kidnapped by the British Government?”

            Something in her features softens while at the same time making her look distinctly uncomfortable. “I'm not aware of his reasons, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes requires your presence. I've simply been tasked with getting you to him.”

            I don't believe her for a second but I find that this version of Anthea, attention on me rather than her phone (which has yet to make an appearance), strangely disconcerting. It is perhaps for this reason that I don't put up much of a fight, instead grabbing my bag and heading into the bathroom to change.

            I take this brief moment of privacy to calm my rapid heart. One look in the mirror confirms the nightmare's hold on me – sweaty sheen and dilated pupils – no matter how nonchalant I had tried to be in front of Mycroft's PA. I splash water on my face before pulling on trousers and a jumper, running my fingers over a fresh growth of scruff. There is very little improvement in my tired appearance and when I return to find the ever-pristine Anthea waiting for me, I hate her a little more. It certainly doesn't look like 3AM for _her_.

            The phone finally comes out while we're sitting in the back of the sleek black car Mycroft has sent. Still, I can feel Anthea's discomfort like a wave as she sits in silence beside me tapping away at the device. I move to turn my own mobile back on and find that I've left it back in the hotel room with the rest of my belongings. Finally my own anxiety and worry get the best of me and I turn to her abruptly.

            “Has something happened to Sherlock?”

            “No.”

            Her reply is so succinct that I believe it. Still, if not for his brother's safety, I can think of no other reason for Mycroft's 3AM summons. I can't bring myself to believe Sherlock would go so far as to ask him for help in finding me. Not when I'd clearly left the flat of my own volition. Yet I can think of no other reason for the cloak and dagger at this hour.

            Before long, we're pulling up to the Diogenes Club and I'm being lead inside to Mycroft's office. Through the closed door I can hear voices raised in argument, but at Anthea's knocking the contention is cut short and we are summoned inside.

            Sherlock looks up at me, pale-faced and drawn. I stop short in the doorway and force myself to breathe through my anger.

            “Do _not_ tell me I've been dragged out of bed at this hour just because I wasn't at your beck and call for _one damn night_.”

            He stiffens and looks away but it's Mycroft who speaks up from behind his desk.

            “John, Sherlock did not call me – I called him.”

            That gives me pause. “What?”

            Suddenly I can feel the heaviness of the room. Anthea has slipped out but her discomfort has not followed her from the office. It has simply settled in with this tense unspoken _something_ that is currently rolling off of either Holmes' shoulders.

            “What's going on?”

            Sherlock steps forward and I find myself stepping back, like opposing ends of a magnet.

            “What's going on?” I ask again, and my voice sounds strained.

            Mycroft clears his throat and looks down at an open file on his desk.

            “At eight o'clock last night the body of Harriet Watson – ”

            I stop breathing.

            “– was found in her home by ex-wife, Clara – ”

            “I don’t...”

            “I'm very sorry, John but – ”

            “Shut up.”

            It comes out flatly and it does the job. Both Mycroft and Sherlock are watching me in silence, not moving a muscle.

            I try to reconcile the words...the words...

            Harry.

            ...Harry's body...

            Oh god, Clara.

            ...the body of Harriet Watson...

            ...the body...body...

            Harry is dead.

            The room is spinning very likely because I've ceased to breathe.

            Sherlock's voice breaks through my reverie.

            “John? John you need to breathe...”

            The room lilts to the right and there are hands under my arms, guiding me to a chair. I fold down so that my forehead is resting against my knees.

            “I'm going to be sick.”

            A waste bin is procured just in time for me to retch into it. Sherlock's hand squeezes my shoulder but it's the wrong thing to do because unbidden memories are creeping to the surface.

            I jerk away from Sherlock's touch and curl further into myself, my hands clasping my head to stave off the images and flashbacks.

            “How?” I ask barely above a whisper.

            Mycroft hesitates. “Perhaps now is not the time for details...”

            “ _How_?” This time more forcefully.

            “Shot,” Sherlock answers. “Harry was shot.”

 

* * *

 

 

            The morgue seems smaller now than it ever has.

            There's only one body out on display, still zipped up in a black body bag. Beside me Lestrade waits for me to confirm what Clara already has. That this body, this fleshy vessel so abruptly invaded by the force of a bullet, is Harriet Anne Watson. I know this but I can't seem to push myself forward to pull at the zipper. Molly looks like she wants to do it for me, but a curt shake of the head from Greg stays her hand. Instead they wait along side Sherlock who has not left my side since we left Mycroft's office.

            We're breaking a whole slew of rules, I know. Molly has not done the autopsy yet – was in fact roused out of bed at 4:30 in the morning by Sherlock to come in early and open the morgue. Once Sherlock had explained why, she had come quickly and without complaint. But the autopsy has not been done so there is still evidence on the body; on Harry. I should not be in this room. I should not be the one to open this bag. Harry should not be in this bag.

            Greg leans in an gently says, “Take your time, John.”

            Like a dam released, his words seem to push me forward. I reach out with a remarkably steady hand (gloved) and slowly pull the zipper back from the head end of the bag down just past the shoulders. I look down at the familiar face, marred by a zygomatic fracture. And there, on the shoulder, a fresh bullet wound visible through the bloodied hole of Harry's button down blouse.

            She doesn't look peaceful, like she's only fallen asleep. She looks dead. Beneath the dark facial bruising, her skin is the unhealthy paste of an alcoholic and her open eyes look up at me unseeing. I stare into them and try to tell myself that this isn't Harry, not anymore. But it's a lie, because there's the scar on her chin from falling off her bike when she was ten. And there's the cigarette burn from when our father had gotten out of hand. I rub its twin on my own collarbone absentmindedly.

            A thought strikes me unbidden. We share two injuries now – Harry’s gunshot wound is a mirror of my own.

            This is Harry.

            Harry was shot.

            Harry is dead.

            A weight that I have been carrying since I was six falls like a shroud from my shoulders, leaving exhausted relief in its wake.

            “I need to go home.”

            No one objects and I walk away from them all, out through the morgue doors and to the lift. Sherlock is close behind me. He reaches for me and for an absurd moment I think he might be trying to hold my hand. Instead, he tugs the rubber gloves off of my sweaty palms and throws them in the nearby bin.

            We return home in silence.  

 

* * *

  

            I had gone up to my room the minute we'd gotten to the flat, but I've been sitting on the edge of my bed for hours now – wide awake and dry-eyed. The dim grey of dawn has begun to creep through my window and I can hear the traffic picking up outside. Downstairs the flat is silent and I realize that I have no idea if Sherlock stuck around after our return. Our fight yesterday seems like a distant thing, and my anger has been shuffled away to be dealt with later. In its place sits Harry and all the thoughts that follow in her wake.

            Harry did not die quickly from the gunshot wound. I know this because the knot of twisted flesh on my own shoulder is proof that death from this kind of injury takes time.

Wretchedly painful time.

            Clara had found her in the evening, only a couple hours after I had checked into the hotel. Had I thought to consider staying with my sister, I might have prevented this. A small intrusive thought tries to wriggle its way into my stream of consciousness. _Do I even care that I didn't prevent it?_ I try to still my trembling hand but this little piece of cruelty persists and I find myself unable to answer the question.

            Instead I force myself to consider what needs to be done now, how to be _useful._ How to stave off those thoughts and memories I have worked so hard to bury over the years. Phone calls have to be made, a funeral needs to be planned. Mycroft or his PA had taken care of Sherlock's fake funeral and Harry had handled Mum's (I had been en route back from the Middle East in the days leading up to it) four years back. It then occurs to me that Harry's body won't be released right away. It's not even been 24-hours and there's still a police investigation to be carried out and a killer to be caught. This is not Harry drinking herself to death. This is Harry being shot in her home.

            Instantly the guilt is overwhelming. Of course I care that I didn't prevent this! For all the mind-numbing shit I've waded through since our childhood years, I may have once wished this kind of violence on her, but now that it’s happened I feel wrong to have thought it at all. Not when I know exactly what it feels like.

            Propelled by the confusion brought on by that doubt, I push myself up off the bed and wearily make my way downstairs. I need to do something to distance myself from the past that threatens to spill over my mental barriers, and phone calls seem important. I only realize that I've left my phone at the hotel once I see that my duffel is sitting beside my armchair - courtesy of Anthea no doubt. Sure enough, my mobile is tucked inside one of the pockets – as is my illegal firearm.

            A quick search of the flat confirms Sherlock's absence. Suddenly faced with the task of phone calls I stall. The routine of tea making helps to ground me. Almost as soon as I start I can hear Mrs. Hudson bustling up the stairs from the main floor. She peeks through the open door and upon seeing my drawn and tired countenance, gives me her most sympathetic of looks.

            “John, dear! What an awful business, Sherlock told me just this morning!”

            I glance at the clock. It's not even 8AM yet, how long has the detective been gone?

            “Sit down! Let me get that tea for you!”

            She produces a plate of warm scones and sits me down in my armchair.

            When we are both set up with steaming cups, Mrs. Hudson sitting opposite me in Sherlock's chair, I catch her watching me with a strange look on her face. It's as though she's expecting me to break down at any moment. As if vomiting into Mycroft's waste bin wasn't enough. I wonder if she's waiting for me to start crying? My eyes remain as dry as they have been since I got the news.

            “What time did he leave?” I ask.

            “Oh, quite early. He only woke me to see that I check in on you after he'd gone.”

            I run a hand through my hair.

            “Did he say where he'd gone?”

            Apparently he hadn’t.

            Mrs. Hudson coos and consoles, but I find myself unable to follow the conversation. Standing, I venture over to the fireplace and look over the unfamiliar information pinned to the wall over the mantle. It is curiously free of data pertaining to the Debussy case. In its place are a police report and a statement with Clara's name on it.

            “What...” I try to wrap my head around something I know should be obvious but I'm having trouble shouldering through the haze of my exhaustion. “Why are these here? What about Marie Debussy's murder?”

            “Whose murder, dear?”

            But a panic is rising in my chest along with understanding and I barely hear her. _Sherlock_ will be working Harry's case – digging up old history in hopes of finding the shooter. I can only hope that whoever did it is a stranger (a robbery gone wrong perhaps) and that the digging won't need to go too deep.

            “I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson, I have to go!”

            I don't even remember to grab my jacket off the hook before I'm rushing out the door, mobile in hand.

 

_Where are you?_

 

            I flag down a taxi.

 

_Harry's apartment. SH_

 

            I give the cabbie the address, forcing my hand between my knees to keep the tremor at bay.

 

_I can be home in an hour if you need me. SH_

 

            I barely spare this out of character nicety any thought as we make our way through London's commuter traffic. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mention of child abuse/incest.

Chapter Three

 

            Donovan sees me coming up the stairwell before I even reach the police tape barricading Harry's flat door. She raises a hand to stop me.

            I can't help but wonder why she's even here. The detectives would have done all they needed last night. Today the apartment should be empty but for some tail-end forensics or an officer on duty. As if on cue, a man in a blue papery suit slips past us to enter the flat. Not to mention Sally should be working on Greg’s Debussy case, not here on Harry's. I say none of this though, but find myself stayed by her outstretched hand.

            “I'm sorry, John,” she says and I can hear honest sympathy under her brisk tone. “You can't come in on this one.” At my confused look she merely give a terse shake of her head, “Conflict of interest.”

            Damn right I'm conflicted.

            “I need to see Sherlock.”

            “That, you _can_ do,” she lifts her radio to her mouth and calls to someone inside the apartment. “Oi, Doctor Watson's here to see the Freak. Send him out.”

            The barb about Sherlock barely registers. Usually Sally's callous remarks sting me more than they do my flat mate but today they just slide right off me.

            “I'm sorry about this,” Sally says as we wait.

            I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, nodding. She's never been sorry about making me wait for anything before.

            “We all are, at the Yard.”

            Oh.

            They're sorry for my sister being murdered. I decide I don't like this side of Sally, I'd much rather her bristling and irritated.

            “John?”

            I open my eyes and see Sherlock standing next to Donovan. He's got the look in his eyes – the look that he's caught wind of something but hasn't _quite_ caught it. I can't help but flinch.

            “Er...yeah, I want to...” I clear my throat and gesture to the stairwell. “Can I talk to you a moment?”

            He nods slowly, his eyes very nearly sparking with electricity. He looks like a cat about to pounce and my breath hitches in my throat. I turn and lead us up the next flight of stairs to the next landing, looking for some semblance of privacy.

            “Why aren't you working the Debussy case?” I ask, deciding to start small so as to not draw attention to the fact that I'm a panicked wreck on the inside.

            Sherlock shrugs one thin shoulder. “That was easy, I solved it almost right away.”

            I raise a brow.

            “The over-zealous step-father, not the biological one, attended church with the mother and daughter. His disgust concerning the girl’s promiscuity made little sense considering he'd been taking advantage of her for years. I gave Dimmock everything I found from the crime scene and from speaking with the parents. I'm mostly confident he'll be able to find the necessary evidence to arrest the man. That, and a few other murder cases of the serial persuasion I should think from all the ritualistic details…”

            My sluggish brain tries to play catch up as I run a hand over my face. I need a shave. “Dimmock?”

            Sherlock is watching me intently, trying to pull the secrets out of me in order to understand what he must have found in the apartment. When he speaks it's almost as if he's not paying much attention to his own words. “Lestrade handed the case over upon getting the call about Harry.”

            I berate myself silently for my own stupidity. The haze that has followed the news of Harry's death has left me numb and slow. Greg had been at the morgue this morning; of course he's working the case, which is why Sally is working it. Which means Anderson is likely down there right now...

            I have to make a concerted effort to push the bile down.

            “I thought you would be pleased to know Lestrade took the case...” Sherlock says slowly.

            I snap my attention back to him and shake my head slightly, “No, it's fine. It's good – Greg knows what he's doing.”

            I've failed to convince him. His deductive gaze roves over my every feature though and I fidget where I stand.

            “I rather thought you would be more animated about all this.”

            I can only stare at him, anger bursting within me. “Yes, well I've only found out my sister's been shot a couple hours ago haven't I?”

            Sherlock takes a step forward and I am backed up against the wall. “Sherlock, what –”

            “What aren't you telling me?”

            He's right in my face now, and his pale eyes and dark unruly hair are all I can see.

            “Lay off, would you...”

            He doesn't. It's like he can't. I've seen it before at crime scenes. He gets the scent of blood and can't stop until the deductions have been purged from his head. It doesn't matter what he's saying or whom he's saying it to. It's like a compulsion.

            “You do not seem to be reacting with horror at her circumstances like most people would be. No, you've been _relieved._ I thought it was strange at first but then you've never spoken at length about your elder sister in the past and have habitually avoided her phone calls. I've always thought this was due to your abhorrence for her alcohol abuse as she only ever contacted you when she was intoxicated. You've never once been the one to initiate contact with her. In fact you have very little contact with any of your living family, and never speak of your late mother. Perhaps you avoid your father because he too is a drunk – in the past he was very likely heavy handed with his children and wife while under the influence.”

            He's on a roll now and I can see where every little piece of the puzzle will fit together – can see it connecting in that massive brain of his. And I think I might be on the verge of finally breaking down because, though he's not touching me, I can feel hot dry hands all over my body and sour breath that isn't really there heavy against my face.

            “Was it your drunken father's heavy hand that drove you to the army? No...no, you wouldn't have left Harry and your mother alone with him. No, you're a protector to a fault. It was more than him. It was...” his gaze finally flickers away in the direction of Harry's flat before it is drawn back to me, “... _her_. Both your father and Harry. And it wasn't just beatings was it? No, your mother wouldn't have taken Harry's side on that. And she did, didn't she? She believed Harry not you. Which is why you don't talk about her.”

            A small part of me, feeble and weak against the barrage of Sherlock's deductions, wants to point out that 'family' is not a popular topic of conversation for the consulting detective either. This little defense gets lost in the dryness of my throat, however, and I'm forced to hear him come to the conclusion I've been avoiding for most of my life.

            “He sexually abused both you and Harry.”

            There it is. Would he guess the rest?

            “And in turn, she did the same to you.”

            The dam breaks and there is white light and black spots in my vision.

            When it clears, Sherlock's expression is one of triumph for getting it right. Within a beat it slips to one of disgust, horror. He opens his mouth to say something but I can't hear the words. Blood is rushing through my ears and I'm not sure if my heart has stopped or if the tattoo of its beats is just too fast for me to hear it. Very slowly, I push myself away from the wall and walk away from him, my legs feeling oddly jerky. Somehow I make it down the stairs only to be confronted with the shocked faces of Donovan, Anderson, and three forensic techs. They've heard everything.

            I flee from the building, my leg spasming with its cruel phantom pains.

            The weather is brisk but I don't remember the jacket still hanging on the hook at Baker Street until my hands are frozen and my leg is threatening to give out. When finally I look up to see where I am, I realize I've covered nearly eight blocks without even considering my surroundings.

            With what little presence of mind I still have, I duck into an ally and head for home. 221B Baker Street is empty when I get there. I force myself up two flights of stairs to my bedroom and collapse there against the door.

            It is a strange thing, this emptiness; the presence of it bizarrely heavy in my chest. Slowly, painfully, I draw my knees up to my chin and let my arms fall to my sides. On the other side of the closed door at my back, the flat below is shrouded in the silence. Whether Sherlock failed to follow me of his own accord, or if Donovan forced him to let me go I find I don't care to know. The look of disgust on his face feels as though it’s been imprinted onto my retinas. I try to shove the thought of him forcibly from my mind but it stays; sticks like honey, stings like wasps. Seeing the futility of hiding from my own thoughts I try to redirect them and find my gaze listlessly sliding to the duffel sitting on my bed. Or rather to the gun I know to be waiting within it; cold and loaded, safety on. Mrs. Hudson must have brought it up in a fit of nervous tidying.

            Like the memory of Sherlock's face, the recollection of the weight of the gun in my hand is persistent. It carries with it other memories too, horrible ones. The ones I've kept at bay, now so publicly put on display by my best friend. Fresh hot tears blur my vision and the room feels unbearably warm. I tear off my jumper and the vest underneath and try to catch my breath.

            Before I can even register what I'm doing, I find myself stumbling to my feet and careening forward until I am braced against the surface of the nightstand beside the bed, hands curled tightly around the edges. My leg threatens to buckle beneath me as one hand reaches aside and zips open the bag. There it is, heavy in my hand now.

            Heavier than most people imagine.

            I sit wearily on the edge of the bed with my head in one hand, elbows on my knees, and the gun in the other. I stare at it unblinkingly, vaguely aware of the tears falling to the carpeted floor. This gun, much like the one I carried through Afghanistan and every other one I've ever shot, has been like a cache for every horrendous touch and caress. For every incestuous kiss and for every look of horror and disbelief my mother cast in my direction. Every shot has been a cathartic release but never has the weight lessened. Always the gun has remained impossibly heavy with the retention of my father, Harry and the outcome of my own life.

            Because how can I want _that_ after what both of them have done? What is so wrong with me that I crave a woman's touch after suffering through that of my own sister's? Not a woman at the time, just a child in her own right. Or a man’s for that matter after years of my own father? Harry gay, and myself bisexual after all that hell! And how can I hate her when she'd so obviously learned it from _him?_ Only, he did it to me too so where is the reprieve? It strikes me then that I've been waiting for them both to drink themselves to death all these years. But now Harry really _is_ dead and I feel both relief and horror at how it happened. Because I wasn't lying to myself earlier. I really never would have wished that death on her. On _him,_ yes – but not Harry.

            The conflicting emotions war within me.  

            I vomit between my shaking knees, a wretched sob escaping from my throat.

            Gripping the sides of my head, the flat side of the gun lays coolly against my temple.

            I cannot escape this. Sherlock has seen to that.

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, John's feelings about the connection between the abuse and his being queer are not reflective of my own opinions. The character is a victim who is conflicted, and the one is not indicative of the other.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued Trigger Warning: child abuse/incest is further discussed in this chapter.

Chapter 4

 

 

            Both of my hands shake but the gun grounds me.

            “John.”

            The voice is sharp, almost a bark.

            My head snaps up and Sherlock is standing in my doorway, frozen in mid stride. One open hand is stretched out in front of him and the other is gripping the doorknob. For a moment he is the only thing my fractured mind can concentrate on. His riotous black hair windswept and only one side of his coat collar is turned up as if he'd thrown it on in haste. His tall wiry frame is leaning ever so slightly towards me, caught in hesitation. Cold icy eyes stare back at me in silence for what feels like an eternity until suddenly he breaks the illusion. He is on me in the blink of an eye. He takes the gun from me with hands that shake, turns the safety back on (when had I...?) and disarms the weapon, sticking it in the back of his waist band and slipping the cartridge into the pocket of his coat.

            His wide eyes flicker from the pool of sick at my feet (steadily being absorbed into the carpet) to my discarded shirts and finally to my face, taking in every possible detail. He looks like he might be ill too.

            As hot as the room had felt moments ago, I am suddenly freezing and I realize that I'm sitting here shaking in nothing but my trousers. This doesn't escape Sherlock and he's already got my jumper in one hand, silently indicating that I raise my arms. I do it even though, like the rest of me, they feel like stone. He slips the jumper over my head like a mother would a young child.

            Everything that happens next feels slow and disjointed.

            Sherlock pulling me to my feet.

            Sherlock leaning me against his thin frame as we make our way down to the living room.

            Being guided into my armchair.

            Hot tea being pressed into my hands and then suddenly being taken away when they shake and it spills into my lap.

            The room tilting back as I stare at the ceiling.

            Finally he's kneeling in front of me, one hand on my knee and the other guiding my head down to look at him.

            “John.”

            I blink.

            “What would you have done had I not come in?”

            I take a shuddered breath and close my eyes, leaning away from the hand on my cheek.

            “Not that.”

            My voice is a croak and barely constitutes as a whisper but I know he hears me. He never says he doesn't believe me, even though I'm telling the truth, but I can tell he doesn't by the way his hand tenses on my leg. Perhaps he now realizes that I too am capable of hiding things and my words mean nothing. I don't try to reassure him. He's made it perfectly clear I can't hide anything from him _forever_.

            “I...” he takes a deep breath and looks me fiercely in the eye. I'm so sapped of energy that I just stare back through puffy and sore eyes. “I want you to understand how deeply I regret speaking out back at the crime scene.”

            He is grasping my hands tightly now, as if his sincerity might be passed on through osmosis. A very faint spark of anger ignites within me and I pull my hands away, recoiling slightly in the chair. The scattered fragments of my mind _snick_ back into place and in their wake comes waves of fury.

            “You're sorry that the Yarders heard you,” I croak through gritted teeth, “but you don't regret saying it.”

            It's not a question and he sits back on his heels, a hard look momentarily flickering across his face. “You should have told me.”

            I push myself to my feet, grasping the arm of the chair as my head spins. There is nothing left in my stomach to vomit, but the nausea remains. I take a step forward, forcing him to stand lest I push him over with my closeness. “Not everything is a puzzle for you to solve, Sherlock! Not everything that has happened in my life is meant to be read by you, or fettered out by your _deductive reasoning!_ ”

            The outburst shakes us both but now that I've said it I don't think I can stop. Abruptly, yesterday's fight is rushing in to find space in my head around this new betrayal. I grit my teeth and point an accusing finger at him.

            “You can't just do this to me over _and over_ again!” My voice is rising and I can't – won't – stop it. “You can't just ruin me like this whenever you feel like it! Whenever you feel it's for the best! Who are you to make that decision for me? It's _my_ life!”

            Sherlock is looking nervous now, and part of me realizes I've never seen him quite like this before and that he has never seen me so unhinged. But I'm on a roll and it's all going to be laid out on the table; all of it.

            “You left me! For an entire year I believed I'd watched you kill yourself! And I know, I know why you did it but don't you think I would have come with you? Don't you think I could have kept up the lie long enough for the others to be safe so I could come and help?”

            “You're a terrible liar.”

            It's barely a whisper and I ignore it.

            “I would have followed you anywhere, you self-obsessed bastard! I loved you, I would have followed! But you ruined me! And then you came back and expected me to chase your bloody coattails like a loyal dog! You don't deserve my loyalty! You think you can speak to me like you do and you expect me to take it! You can't even let me have my own secrets, things that have nothing to do with anything! Knowing what Harry did to me – what my father did to us both – isn't going to help you solve her...her murder! Why'd you have to dig for it?!”

            The look on his face is one of astonishment mixed with realization and fear.

            “You what?” he asks.

            That brings my tirade to a screeching halt. “What?”

            We stand facing each other, Sherlock as unmoving as a statue and me huffing with exasperation and no doubt red-faced with fury.

            “You...you said you lo–”

            “No...I mean, what?” I fall back a step. “No I didn't.”

            His eyes flick over my shoulder and narrow slightly as if the words are spelled out in the air beside me. “After you called me a bastard...”

            It's such a strange turn from the direction I had been headed for that I have to backtrack and confirm if I have indeed let that slip out. Yes. Shit, I did.

            “Shit.”

            I slump back into my chair, dazed. That isn't something I've acknowledged since one of many _gun nights_ months ago and here I go and shout it at him while simultaneously tearing him a new one. But I know it's the truth, which is why these betrayals have hurt so deeply in the first place.

            “I...” Sherlock looks absolutely out of his comfort zone as he taps long fingers against his thigh. Not meeting my eyes, he turns his head to stare at the shot up smiley face on the wall. “I uh... _that_ as well.”

            I stare up at him completely at a loss, unsure if I understand him correctly.

            He clears his throat. “Which is why I came back from...dying. I...well...”

            I don't think I've ever seen him at a loss for words and I find it extremely unsettling. And then he seems to think of something and a pink rush of shame rises against his high cheekbones.

            “Loved...past tense,” he mutters.

            I recall the look of disgust on his face back at Harry's flat and let my head fall into my hands. What is even happening right now? The fury is rapidly draining from me, like sand from a sieve, and it is being replaced with the exhaustion of the past two days and something akin to loss.

            When the silence between us stretches out to an unbearable length, I look up to see he's sitting in his own chair and his attention has been drawn back to the abused graffiti. I rub my hands over my eyes, scrubbing away at the rawness left from crying. Leaning back into the Union Jack pillow, I sigh. If I don't say this out loud now, I feel I might shatter from the cracks that reach so thoroughly within me. Sherlock only knows what his deductions can tell him, but the real story is in the details. Whatever feelings he had entertained during his absence have clearly been lost with the revelation of my past. I can barely breathe just thinking that he felt them in the first place. But we have already jumped into the abyss and the only thing for it is to prepare myself for the inevitable impact from hitting the bottom.

            “Dad favoured Harry when we were kids,” I say, squaring my shoulders and fixing my eyes out the window. From my peripheral I can see Sherlock straighten up slightly in surprise. “He didn't like that I was scrappy or a back talker. Harry was a people pleaser; she never got into fights and tussles like I did. Not to mention she was three years older. He liked that too.”

            When my hand starts to shake I press it firmly between my knees and continue.

            “The first time I caught him with her I was six. Even at that age I was frightened of him – we all were. He was always drunk and violent. But this...this was,” I exhale heavily, “new. They were, uh...naked. He caught me watching and he locked me in the closet for the day until Mum got home from work. I obviously didn't understand what he had been doing, but I'd seen Harry crying so I told Mum about it the next day.”

            The memories of her horrified expression and the sharp sting of her hand across my cheek try to pull me under. I force myself to inhale steadily.

            “She didn't believe he was capable, or maybe she didn't want to. I always hated her for that, because he’d never given her a reason to believe he wasn’t. Either way I never spoke up about it again. Not to anyone. But _he_ knew, one way or another, what I had done. Maybe it was as punishment for telling, or maybe I was just old enough by then because it wasn't too long after that that he started up with me too. It took a broken arm and threats to hurt Mum and Harry before I became _compliant_. It went on like that for years. And then when I was thirteen he was put away on manslaughter charges. Got into a brawl with a bloke down at the pub. One day he was there and the next he was rotting in a cell and I thought: this is it, we're finally _fucking free_.”

            “Only you weren't.”

            My eyes snap to meet Sherlock's and I can see he has gone rigid, lips pressed into a tight line.

            “Harry...” I reply. The anxiety is coiled tightly within me. “One night it was her instead of him. By seventeen she'd already had a drinking problem so she was plastered every time she...well. She would say all the same things he would. Would...would whisper them into my fucking ear. Threats to Mum, people I knew, people I liked. Anything to keep me from lashing out. She was so drunk that sometimes she’d say her own name. He’d wrecked her so completely; I don’t know if she was really even there half the time, you know? Even four years younger, even though I was smaller, I could have hurt her and she knew it. But I never did. I just let her...”

            Breathing is taking a concerted effort. With some exertion I force myself to regain some footing.

            “I joined the military as soon as I was able to – they put me through medical school when it became obvious I would be an asset as a field surgeon. Dad was let out while I was on tour and Mum died a few years before I was invalided home. That was the only time I ever went back, to go to her funeral. I almost didn't but Harry's wife at the time convinced me to come back to England for it. I couldn't even stay for the whole thing, couldn't guarantee that I wasn't going to shoot Dad right then and there. So I left. I haven't seen him since, have barely seen Harry. She never acknowledged any of it, not ever. She was always calling me up drunk and miserable but it's like she deleted everything she ever did to me.”

            Sherlock visibly flinches at the reference to his own memory device.

            “Now she's dead.”

            My voice sounds flat and definitive. The room feels cold and empty as the long buried secret seeps into the walls, the floor, the furnishing. It's everywhere and I wonder if I'll taste it in the air forever.

            “Did any of that mean anything to you?” I ask finally.

            Sherlock looks momentarily bewildered. “What...?”

            “Does knowing that story help you find out who murdered my sister?”

            There is a long pause before he answers, “Having all the data is imperative.”

            I feel the scowl pulling at the corners of my lips. “All the important data, Sherlock. I'll ask you again. Does knowing any of that help you solve this case?”

            The answer is curt and simple.

            “No.”

            I nod and stand once more, heading slowly to the kitchen.

            “We can't keep on the way we have been,” I say without looking back at him. There is no fire behind my words, only weariness. I hear Sherlock stand up behind me. “You keep doing these things like there aren't any consequences, only there are for the people around you. If you honestly...” I don't even think I can say it, “I mean if that's the way you truly felt about me, you wouldn't do this to me time and again.”

            He doesn't reply, but the floor creaks as he walks away from me. The door to his bedroom shuts with a firm _click._

           

 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 

 

            I've just hung up with Clara when my mobile rings again, this time with Greg’s name lighting up the screen.

            “John,” he says before I can get out a proper greeting, “are you at home?”

            “Um, yeah. What is it?”

            There is a shaky breath on the other end, almost like relief. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you. Is Mrs. Hudson there?”

            “She's visiting her sister for the weekend...”

            “Good, that's good. Don't open the door for anyone, not until I call up and tell you I'm here.”

            The line goes dead.

            What in the bloody hell is going on now?

            Yesterday, after what I can only describe as a purge of my past where Harry and my father are considered, I had gone up to bed and slept like the dead – blessedly free of nightmares for the first time in a while. It is as though the release had taken what little energy I had left after the previous two days and left me drained. I had slept for hours, waking to feel a weight lifted. Upon getting up this morning to find Sherlock gone, I bore down and made one of the only two phone calls I could think to make: informing Harry's employer about what had happened. Only, they'd informed _me_ that a certain Clara O'Neil had already called.

            Not long after hanging up, Clara herself had rung negating me making the second phone call. She had cried, said nice things about her ex-wife that I couldn't reciprocate and had already told everyone close to Harry about what had happened, saving me the trouble. She’s already gotten started on funeral arrangements and I'm honestly grateful that someone who had loved my sister will be involved in this.

            But Greg's call puts all thoughts of Harry to the side.

            Now, I jump up from the table and take the stairs two at a time. My leg hasn’t been bothering me today. I dress quickly and lament my unshaven face, but there’s no time to do it now. I'm already pulling the drawer to my nightstand open when I remember that Sherlock has (or has hidden) my gun. There is a little spark of embarrassment in my chest but I push it down. Is he with Greg? Will he even give it back to me after yesterday? Or has something happened to him, warranting the distinct tone of fear in the Detective Inspector's voice?

            Despite yesterday, despite everything, I can't stop the dread that's currently settling like lead within me. Just as when Anthea had shown up at my hotel room, I can't help but think that whatever is behind the impromptu call will be somehow connected to the consulting detective. Conflicting emotions war within me as Greg calls up to tell me he's arrived.

            I meet him at the ground level door and he walks me to his car briskly. I find myself taking in the street with a level of seriousness I haven't done in a long time. Assessing for danger, looking for threats. I'm ushered into the back seat and am only all too relieved to find Sherlock already sitting up front. I find myself unsure of how to act around him now, and the fact that he doesn't even acknowledge my presence speaks volumes. I decide that, in the face of whatever fresh hell has reared its ugly head, I am going to push all of our drama to the back burner. There is simply no space in my head to consider it further at the moment.

            “What in the hell is going on?” I demand of them both when Greg slips into the driver's seat and we are pulling away from the curb. I look out the window and see not one but two black cars following closely. “Why is Mycroft having us tailed?”

            “Does the name Moran mean anything to you?” Sherlock asks me, not looking back but keeping his eyes firmly ahead.

            The name sends a shock through my system. Moran: ex-soldier turned criminal. The memory of a shadowy face standing over me with the barrel of his gun pointed lazily in my direction takes over the reality of the car I'm currently sitting in.

            “I should hope so,” I say through gritted teeth, the atmosphere thick around me. “Sebastian Moran is the man who shot me.”

            Greg swears and Sherlock actually swivels around in his seat to stare at me in shock. “ _What?_ ”

 

* * *

  

            “How did they miss something like this? When the victim of a shooting can identify his shooter, does that not seem like something worth _writing down?_ ”

            Mycroft is the picture of indifference behind his desk at the Diogenes Club where we have sequestered ourselves. Sherlock has both hands flat on the desk and is leaning in to rip his brother apart. Greg and I stand back, knowing from experience just to let him go on until either Mycroft stops his tirade or until he demands our attention instead.

            “As you are by now aware, brother mine,” Mycroft sneers, “the shooter in question was presumed deceased at the time. There was no reason not to assume Doctor Watson's assertions weren't simply a by-product of the fever and infection he had as a result of his injury.”

            He catches my eye and tilts his head in acknowledgement. For what, I wonder. Acknowledgement for taking one in the shoulder for queen and country? Recognition for being right about Seb all along? It hardly seems worth it.

            “Why is he back now?” Sherlock demands more of himself than of his brother. “If no one believed John when he said it was Moran, and his accusation didn't even make it into his file, why risk this? Why come all the way back to England after over two years to silence him, but go after his sister instead?”

            We are on delicate ground here and Mycroft and I share a look across the room in silent discussion as his brother continues to mutter aloud. How much is to be said about Sebastian Moran in front of civilians (even if one of them is Sherlock Holmes) and how much will we be revealing about my role in all of this? Because while we've never spoken in depth about my military history it would be foolish to think that Mycroft Holmes isn't privy to every single nuance of each of my tours. Crack shots the RAMC does not make, after all. His shoulders fall slightly and I know he's resigned himself to telling Sherlock at least a portion of what is currently sealed in files hidden beyond even his reach.  

            The information Sherlock has now is only a little more than minimal, but we both know he will drive himself (and us) crazy trying to dig deeper. But it is Greg who has nothing to benefit from this knowledge; it will only put him in danger. No more than Sherlock or myself will be in, but this feels preventable. He only knows about Moran because the ex-soldier's face had been caught by pure, unadulterated luck on a CCV camera across from Harry's flat. Even an expert criminal cannot account for a gust of wind pulling his hood back. But when facial recognition had revealed a name and a sealed file, Mycroft had been called to assist. He had done nothing but suggest I be secured immediately and brought here.

            Now we stand at an impasse.

            “Greg,” I say, and Sherlock whirls around as if only now remembering we're here, “maybe you ought to go back to the Yard.”

            He lifts a brow and frowns. “I really don't think I'm going to do that.”

            “Doctor Watson is right,” Mycroft says and I detect a difference in his tone – no less put upon, no less annoyed, but _something_. “What we have to discuss needs to be kept to as few people as possible, for everyone's safety.”

            Greg only plants himself firmly in his spot beside me, a defiant glare directed at Mycroft. “I'm not leaving John in the middle of this mess, and throwing me out isn't going to stop me and you know it.”

            Sherlock is looking back and forth between them but if he's made a deduction about this curiously informal interaction between the two men, for once he keeps his mouth shut about it. I myself am touched by his insistence. Greg Lestrade really is a good friend. During Sherlock's _hiatus_ we had become rather close, both sharing in the loss and the public ridicule. And he had swapped cases with Dimmock when Harry had been shot, for me I know. The vague memory of his sturdy presence in the morgue softens me a bit, and for a moment I can't decide if I actually want him gone from my side. But the gravity of the situation is enough to force myself to shake my head.

            “This mess isn't one that I can pull you into in good faith,” I say earnestly. “Please, if anything happened to you I would never forgive myself.”

            Neither Mycroft nor I say anything about the possibility that I may not have very long to hold onto guilt of any kind.

            “Please,” I say.

            But it's in his eyes when he looks down at me, a determination I recognize from soldiers overseas. The ones who were scared, the ones with something to lose, who rallied despite their fear. It broke my heart every time to see it in the younger ones – to see the last strip of innocence pulled away to give way for hardness. Only, Greg isn't a young man new to the big wide world. What he's being stripped of now is the very last of his ability to fix things. This is not something he can protect anyone from (even though he doesn’t yet know what _this_ is) and it's not sitting well with him. And so I know what he's going to say even before he says it.

            “Bollocks that.”

            Mycroft scowls and I hang my head. But Sherlock, perhaps out of a desire to not be the only person in the room who doesn't understand where the clues point, says, “Come now, Mycroft! The Detective Inspector isn't a _complete_ idiot. He may be of some minimal use to us after all. For legwork, perhaps!”

            He is looking far too _buoyant_ for someone who was just throwing a tantrum a minute ago. But Greg and Mycroft are having a silent discussion of their own through glares and huffy back posture. After a moment or two the elder Holmes throws up his hands in defeat. It does not escape me that we three (Greg included, interestingly enough) are very likely the only people in the whole of Britain who have the balls to stand up to Mycroft to get our own way. The look of shear choler on the older man's face tells me he's only all too aware of this.

            “It would appear the two of you need to be debriefed,” he sneers. “Please do pay attention as I will not be repeating any of this again.”

            And this, I realize, will be only one more secret to add to the pile this week. At least this time there is no shame, no feelings of betrayal. What Mycroft is about to divulge is a secret for security's sake; a story hidden away for queen and country.

            “In 2006 our intel provided the names of three Afghani officials of the Karzai administration who were part of a delegation set to move through Kabul. According to reports these officials had been targeted by a local group of insurgents. Because they would be moving openly through the city, security was tightened and a special unit was dispatched to disable the threat _quietly._ It was around this time that we were also made aware of a spy within our own operation. There had been insistences of campaigns being unexpectedly thwarted, of enemy camps being evacuated prior to our arrival, as well as other suspicious losses. As a result there were interviews conducted and personnel investigated, but without any headway made. Suffice to say, when the unit tracking the Karzai men lost contact with base camp and a suicide bomber accosted the delegation we were not entirely surprised. All but two of our men were terminated, though they were only identifiable by their tags. The last two soldiers were found injured. A young lieutenant eventually succumbed to his injuries, but Doctor – then _Captain_ – Watson came out relatively unscathed.”

            All eyes in the room turn to me and I find myself staring past Mycroft's shoulder, back straight and soldier's mask in place. It had been a gruesome fight and _unscathed_ must have a very different definition in Mycroft's dictionary. Still, I had eventually been able to return to duty, which was more than I can say for my unit. A familiar twinge of loss flares within me. Across the room I can feel Sherlock's eyes burning into me and it makes the loss of friends and comrades feel all the more acute. For all the evidence my impeccable shooting has suggested since the death of Jeffrey Hope, he never once deduced Special Ops and I can tell he resents me for it.

            “He also came out with the name of the enemy informant. The man’s body, or so we thought, lay with the rest of his unit awaiting transport back home for burial. Sebastian Moran had evidently found his career with the British military lacking. At the time we believed he had simply been double crossed by the Taliban and killed for his troubles.”

            Sebastian Moran. I'd been in that unit for three years, had shared meals and sleeping quarters, friendships and enemies with that man. Realizing he'd double-crossed us all had been one of the most blood chilling moments of my life. Seeing him standing over me with a gun five years later was a close second. Not to mention the incredibly physical interrogation I had been subjected to when I regained consciousness back at base after the ambush in Kabul. I'm not remotely surprised that Mycroft is leaving out the bit where it took the British Army a certain amount of waterboarding to be convinced _I_ wasn’t the spy instead of the “deceased” Moran.

            No wonder I have trust issues.

            “Sherlock's right though,” Greg ventures slowly, bring my attention back to the room. “Why's the bastard back now? John's been alive and well in London for over two years. Seems a bit odd to risk coming back himself, not to mention killing,” he shoots me an abashed look, “Harry first. None of this makes sense.”

            But Sherlock is beginning to pace and shaking a finger at me absently. “No...no, _what_ am I missing? Yes! The Al-Qaeda drug lord! The one we couldn't locate!”

            Mycroft scowls but nods. “When Sherlock was tracking Moriarty's criminal relations, there was one we couldn't find. An obscure drug lord and Al-Qaeda supporter by the hugely unimaginative pseudonym – roughly translating to – the White Devil. While we had never been able to ID the man, it has always been assumed that he was an ex-soldier. There were suspicions that he was British but I won't deny I'd always held out hope he wasn’t. Once it became clear that Moriarty was dead and his followers were being captured or killed, this particular drug lord went to ground. We were never able to locate him though we did take out the remainder of his operation.”

            “But the time line fits, considering an entire army of experts failed to notice Moran wasn't actually dead – ”

            “Sherlock – ”

            “ – even after he shot the only survivor of a failed Special Ops mission for which he was responsible.”

            “And he's back now because...?” Greg looks at me in hopes that he's not the only one confused here, but I think I've got it figured out.

            “Because his safety net is gone,” I answer. “He's got nothing. This isn't about reason or logistics, or even about me outing him anymore. It's about revenge.”

            I think of Harry laying in that body bag.

            “It's about taking everything I have because I'm the one that got away. And if killing me means inconveniencing the man who killed his meal ticket than all the better.”

            Surprisingly, Sherlock looks hurt by my statement but Mycroft is nodding. “I believe his loyalty to James Moriarty only goes so far. With no connections to keep him safe in Afghanistan, Moran has returned to seek retaliation on the only person to whom he can direct his ire. Any backlash toward Sherlock is secondary. I'm sure he was surprised to learn the two of you were even remotely affiliated.”

            “Still...” Greg looks like he knows he's beating a dead horse but presses on. “It's all a bit deranged, don't you think?”

            “I very much doubt anyone in this room will jump to disagree with you Detective Inspector,” Mycroft replies dryly.

           


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 

            The flat is silent in a strained sort of way as I distractedly pick at the label of my beer. Greg sits in Sherlock's chair nursing his own drink as the younger man paces the room.

            “So how does a young doctor find himself doing Special Ops missions for the British Army?” Greg asks, breaking the uncomfortable static.

            Sherlock finally pauses and looks at me expectantly. I consider not telling them; I think about the cameras we gave Mycroft permission to install in the living room and front landing, and the surveillance team watching from their hideout in 221C. But the truth isn't as riveting as Greg must think, and considering these two already know about Seb and the failed mission a few minor details won't be a threat to security. Besides, Mycroft only ordered for visual surveillance not audio.

            “The process wasn't exactly worth writing home about,” I say lightly but the shadow that passes over Greg's expression tells me he's heard about what went down at Harry's apartment. I decide that after all this is said and done (if I come out swinging) I am going to kill that gossipy bint Sally Donovan (and Philip Anderson) very, _very_ slowly. Scowling, I continue, “I enlisted as soon as I was old enough. I didn't have any ambitions beyond being a regular soldier. I was just happy to travel and see the world, even in that capacity. But during my first tour there was an incident involving a road side bomb that killed our unit's medic as well as injured the team leader...”

            The memory of that day curls like a dense fog around the edges of my consciousness. The heat, the sand, my complete inexperience. Murray bleeding out under my fingers and the shouts of the next in command cutting through the incessant ringing in my ears. The instinctual way my hands had moved and the adrenaline taking control of my body and making me useful in the chaos.

            “I...I handled it. And after that I was given the option for medic training once my tour was complete. When I showed more than just a general knack for it the army put me through school to become a surgeon.”

            Greg whistles in appreciation, earning a derisive look from Sherlock who has surprisingly been listening raptly.

            “I didn't know the army did that kind of thing,” Greg says.

            “Neither did I,” I admit. “In any case, I finished school and was sent to Afghanistan – now as a field surgeon. And I did that for a few tours until one day when a mobile field hospital was bombed. I had been headed there to replace another surgeon on leave. We got there just as the bombs went off and I saw evidence of a possible second attack, so I...”

            It had been hot, so hot, and the sounds of pained screams would haunt my dreams for years. By shear coincidence I was the only one who spotted the second attack. There had been a sniper on the roof opposite us and a few suspicious men lingering around the edges of the blast site. In the chaos of soldiers and medics swarming the site, the sniper had evidently been focused elsewhere and so did not take notice of me leaving my post. Without wanting to make it obvious that they had been made, I had snuck off and made my way to the roof of the next building. I had scoped out the area and com'd the soldiers closest to the suspicious men, telling them to move in quietly, telling them about the threat of the sniper who I was covering. The initial firefight lasted seconds before the other insurgents came out of the woodwork like a swarm of fire ants. There are strict codes about medics and their firearms, but that day I had ignored them and made use of the talent I had long before discovered on the firing range.

            I say none of this but shift uncomfortably in my seat.

            “Let me guess,” Sherlock says, flinging himself down onto the sofa, “you _handled_ it.”

            I clear my throat and look anywhere but at him. “Yes.”

            “Jesus,” Greg mutters, staring at me as if he doesn't know me.

            I shift uncomfortably under his attention and shrug. “If anyone else had spotted them, they would have done the same thing.”

            Sherlock snorts disbelievingly, “Whatever it was you did, if that were the case then the next part of your story wouldn't have happened. Modesty has no place in this.”

            “Well pretentiousness doesn't either,” I snap at him. “Look what it did for Sebastian Moran.”

            He frowns but does not interrupt me again.

            “Anyway, after that I was offered more training and a transfer. I wasn't keen on it at first, I loved being a surgeon. But that feeling...” I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling. “The rush of adrenaline I felt saving the survivors from those sons of bitches – it felt bigger than surgery; bigger than helping one person at a time. So I accepted the offer. They put me on as the team medic and my unit...we were together for three years until Seb abandoned us.”

            Maybe because I'm tired and raw, and maybe because I might never get another chance to tell it to anyone after this is all said and done, I decide to elaborate on what Mycroft has already explained. I run a hand through my hair and feel the dull residue of an old but persistent pain in my chest. Quietly, I sigh. “They were the closest thing to family I ever had. Aaron Boyd, Felix Basara, Dexter Brown, and Terry McAllister. They had been my brothers, even Seb had been up until the end.”

            Greg leans forward and shakes his head, “I'm sorry, John. That loss must have been hard.”

            I give him a halfhearted smile and take a swig of my beer.

            “When we were assigned to take out the group targeting the Karzai officials my usual placement should have been with the bulk of the team while Seb and Fee, erm...Felix Basara...acted as sharp shooter and lookout. That was usually how that sort of mission played out – four of us working on foot while those two were our eyes from above. Only this time Seb sent _me_ with Fee. I guess he figured I would stand less of a chance in hand-to-hand combat than one of the others. Physically I was the smallest. Anyway, we...we saw everything. We saw the others being attacked without any focus on Moran, saw him shoot...” I exhale loudly, “saw him shoot Dex. Before we could take out more than a few of the attackers from our spot on the roof, we were ambushed too. Fee survived but died later after we’d been medevac’d out.”

            Sebastian Moran had been wrong to put me up on that roof. He had been wrong about a lot of things.

            “I thought it was over when they told me Moran had died. There had been an explosion and the bodies were unrecognizable, but for their dog tags. I was offered a spot on another team but I couldn't do it all over again, with a new group of people as if Boyd, Fee, Dex and Terry just hadn't happened. So I returned to Kandahar as a surgeon when I had recovered and I stayed there until I was shot, five years later.”

            “You certainly made a career out of the military,” Greg says quietly.

            “I had nothing to come home to,” I respond honestly, “and I had lost my only family in Kabul. But that adrenaline was still there on the operating table. I still had that. And if I couldn't have my family back, I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be but in a trauma bay.”

            “How was it Moran got another chance to attempt murder?” Sherlock asks stiffly from the sofa.

            “Another mobile field hospital in different town. Looking back on it, Seb probably had an inside man on the base. Otherwise I'm not sure how he would have known I was going to be there. But I was and one day so was he.”

            I stare into the burning hearth and shake my head. “I thought I was seeing a ghost.”

            Sherlock suddenly sits up and turns to me. “ _That's_ why you said _'not again'_ when I came back! Right before you fainted!”

            His outburst is met with less than receptive silence. As if to save face he rambles on, “Also, your tendency to be hyperaware of your surroundings, as well as your discomfort with sudden physical contact, is a direct result of your sizeable history with Special Operations.”

            I roll my eyes, “Yes, excellent. Good deduction, that.”

            We return to silence, sipping at our drinks as the others wrap their heads around these revelations.

            “Well at least I know how you've managed to keep Sherlock alive all this time,” Greg offers. “Remind me never to piss you off. Goddamn _Special Ops_...”

            I chuckle and the action feels nice after so much crap crammed into only a few days. “Yeah, well. I haven't been in peak condition since becoming a civilian. I reckon I might actually break a sweat taking you down these days.”

            He barks with laughter but when it dies down he looks at me somberly. “Are you ready for him, if it comes to that?”

            I think of the security detail Mycroft has assigned to me and of the years of training drilled into muscles that have spent that last two and a half years softening. I'm not out of shape by any means – I've had a workout routine since meeting Sherlock and regaining some life purpose. But I'm not what I once was, have never been able to regain what I lost after the infection. And Sebastian Moran, well I don't know that I would have been able to take him out even when we were together in the army. But if Mycroft's men can intercede before I have to face him than I might just survive this. Still, something within me (a great rabid _something_ ) wants to be the one to take him down. For my men, for that part of Harry who didn't deserve such a violent death, for me. I keep this to myself.

            “Let's just hope it doesn't.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

 

            Two days trapped in the flat with Sherlock is enough to drive me crazy. Greg had left us after kipping on our sofa the night of the big reveal, leaving for New Scotland Yard the next morning. And with Mrs. Hudson safe at her sister's we have only each other to ignore. The plan is to draw Moran to the flat when he realizes he won't be catching me out and about, to be intercepted by the inconspicuous men and women loitering in the cafe downstairs or sitting in vehicles parked on the street.

            I try to lie and convince myself I would be happy to wait around if only Sherlock were not so intent on waiting _with_ me (though Mycroft never really gave him the option not to). He hasn't stopped moving, has not sat still, all day which would be only moderately annoying were it not for the fact that we haven't spoken to each other since Greg left. He constantly turns to look at me as if to speak and then doesn't. I'm sitting in my chair, one shaking hand shoved between my knees, _not_ reading the paper and every time I look at him the same thing goes through my head.

            _Loved...past tense._

            What am I supposed to do with that? Tell him 'sorry that my history of sexual abuse has made me less attractive to you'? Then there’s the fact that at one point we were both feeling something for each other and never acted on it. It makes me want to scream. Further to the point, do _I_ still feel for him when I can't trust him not to act without considering my opinion – without hurting me? And fuck, has he hurt me a lot in the past 72 hours. If I were honest with myself, I probably would have told him about Harry and my father eventually, had we ever acted on our feelings; had he never left me for that year. Would it have changed anything? Would knowing my darkest secret have ruined me for him, even then? I lower the paper and watch as he paces the room restlessly. His icy blue-green eyes flick constantly out the windows to the people in the street and I have to bite my tongue to stop from telling him to leave off. The fact that he's dressed and not lounging on the sofa in his pajamas should make me less annoyed, but right now it's just making me nervous. He catches me staring and I return my attention back to the newspaper.

I roll my shoulder and crack my neck. Am I still in love with Sherlock Holmes? Christ, I know that I am even if it does nothing but hurt me, even if I hate it. But does it even matter, given that he's no longer in love with me?

            I stand up abruptly. “I need to get some air.”

            He actually jumps at the sound of my voice and for a split second I almost laugh at the image of him looking like a startled cat. Instead I march across the room and grab my jacket off the hook.

            “As much as I love disregarding Mycroft's attempts at ordering me around, I don't think that's wise given the circumstances.”

            I look at him and raise a brow. “You won't be disregarding anything. You're not coming.”

            I turn back to the stairs to avoid the look of hurt in his eyes and trot down to the door of 221C and knock. Jefferson answers with a small smile – he's been watching the feed. He was the one to install the cameras in the first place.

            “I need some air. Just for a minute?” I ask, leaning against the doorway. “I'll just grab a sandwich from Speedy's and come right back in. Unless he's made you all, Moran's got to be wondering why I haven't left the flat in two days, grief stricken or otherwise.”

            Jefferson considers this and tells me to wait before shutting the door. A moment later he opens it again and nods. “Go ahead, but no lingering! From the door to the cash register and back, no stopping for anyone.”

            I grin and turn to leave before he calls out.

            “And Dr. Watson? I'll take a ham and cheese!”

            The brisk air hits me like a refreshing wave, and with it a rush of adrenaline at the danger, and I loiter on the stoop for as long as I dare. A man on his phone is giving me an alarmed look, and I wonder if maybe the other agents are less open to the idea of me being out here. Ignoring him, I make my way into the cafe and find absolutely no queue. Of course there isn't one. Most of the people here are waiting on the edges of their seats for me to make my purchase and get back inside. But I also know what Jefferson was thinking, what all these undercover agents must now be considering, and no doubt what Mycroft knew when he approved this little excursion. Showing my face might just be what we need to lure Seb to us. In this moment, as I take my time to fish the loose change out of my coat pocket, I am live bait.

            Whatever doubts and fears I had prior to stepping out of that door vanish and in their place is rock solid purpose. Given the choice between safe inertia and risky action, even my body knows how to react under the stress (though I have to admit I'm missing the weight of my gun right about now). I hand over the money to the robust stranger at the cash with a perfectly steady hand and wait for him to fetch the sandwich. Outwardly I am the picture of relaxed indifference, perhaps a little haggard from a recent death in the family, but otherwise unconcerned with the goings-on of those around me. But inside I am wound tight – alert and ready to do whatever needs doing. I wait. We all wait. I get Jefferson's sandwich.

            Nothing happens.

            I bite my lip and consider the menu for a moment, biding my time.

            “Actually, sorry – I think I'll grab a coffee as well.”

            The agent behind the counter narrows his eyes and says through gritted teeth, “We're out.”

            Mycroft has given me a small window of opportunity and it appears to be closing. I shrug and smile and make my way to the door. The street is just as I had left it, only now the man on his cell is chatting stiffly to a woman wearing jogging gear. Their tense postures really aren’t helping keep up the illusion of being ignorant passersby if I’m being honest.

            Traffic is light coming off the main road, but a taxi drives by slowly.

            I pull out my phone and pretend to check a text.

            Two steps to the front door and I think I hear the _click_ of a safety being disengaged but it's only Mrs. Turner closing a window from the neighbouring apartment.

            I make it to the stoop and open the door, pausing to look at my watch.

            The door is closed and locked and I am back inside the flat's entryway without any trouble.

            Jefferson is waiting for me and I hand him the sandwich and climb the stairs with palpable irritation. This could have been done and over with! If Seb is really watching, why not act?

            I reach the living room and am honestly relieved to see that Sherlock has absconded to his bedroom, or perhaps the bathroom. It's the creaking of a floorboard above me that makes me roll my eyes.

            “Seriously,” I mutter loud enough for my voice to carry, “after the past few conversations we've had about respect, you still can't stay out of my room?”

            I stomp up the stairs scowling. But when I step through the partially open door it's only to be greeted by the butt of a gun to the side of my face.

            “Hey mate, remember me?”

The room spins as I gasp on the floor, blood running from a cut above my eye.

I see Seb’s hulking frame come into focus with his gun pointed at me. There is no lengthy exposition or drawn out torture, no climactic moment of discovered intentions. I already know his intentions. Seb wants me dead. That’s all he wants, and we both know it. His only vanity was in having me see his face before he shoots me.

            His mistake.

I kick my foot out enough to get it tangled between his legs and it has the desired effect. Seb comes crashing down on top of me cursing, the gun still clutched in his massive hand. I twist and grasp for purchase until I’ve managed to turn my body around beneath him. I wrap one leg around his throat until my thighs are cutting off his airway and twist his arm at the wrist and pull. I’m simply not tall enough to make the hold entirely effective on his 6ft frame but I want the gun that’s at the end of the arm I’m twisting so I pull harder.

            The struggle is quiet, not the kind you see in the movies – all shouts and cursing.

No, for what feels like a cruel eternity, Seb and I are wrapped up in each other’s limbs and hands. The air around us is silent but for our breathy grunts and the scuffling of our bodies against the carpet. He is so much larger than me, still so much more in the game than I have been since being invalided, that the fight is truly and pathetically unbalanced. I know I'm going to lose this, but I'm scrappy and I'm stubborn, and the memory of the ambush in Kabul makes me fight all the harder. Eventually we push ourselves to kneeling, my back pressed hard against Seb's front and his hands over mine, fighting for dominance over the gun until the pressure of the barrel is firm against my abdomen.

            I see a solution and inherently know that he’s seen it too. I wonder if he thinks I won’t do it.

            “Eat shit,” I grunt through clenched teeth.

            When I pull the trigger I have a brief moment of regret in not being able to see the look of shock on his face. Searing pain quickly pushes that thought from my mind. Somewhere beyond me there is a cry of agony matched only by my own and I am pushed forward to land face down.

            “You bastard! You fucking _bastard_!”

            Seb's voice is wet and gargled and I can hear the slow and agonizing shuffle of the man as he desperately moves to finish what he's started. With what adrenalin reserves he still possesses, I can hear him coming for me once more. I've landed with my hands trapped beneath my body, pressed against my bleeding stomach, but the gun is still cradled in my blood-slick fingers. I try to roll onto my back but the pain stops me almost immediately.

            No matter. Seb's hand wraps around my calf and he half turns, half pulls me closer towards him. I almost pass out with the cry that escapes me, the white-hot excruciation pushing me close to the edge of unconsciousness. The gun is no longer in my hand but Seb doesn’t seem to care about the firearm anymore. He drags himself on top of me; his own rage and pain are evident in the demented gleam in his eyes. The front of his chest is blood-soaked so much so that I can’t tell where the bullet hit him through me. He wraps his own bloodied fingers around my throat and squeezes enthusiastically. I claw at his hands to no avail.

            Three shots ring out and I find myself trapped under the dead weight of my executioner. The clinical part of me acknowledges that his body is keeping pressure on my gunshot wound.

The part of me that wants to breathe isn’t so optimistic.

            There are several voices shouting urgently around me. Pressure and weight are very suddenly absent, and hands press and lift as the ceiling rushes past in a blur. Sounds and scenery feel like they’re coming at me in snippets, like I’m spending an exaggerated amount of time blinking. I want to laugh at the absurdity of that thought but my throat is full of blood and I’m choking.

            Flashing lights and more shouting. I try to form my tongue around the syllables but all that comes out is a pathetic mewl of pain. A hand grasps mine and suddenly one voice cuts through the chaos.

            “You’ll be alright. You’ll be alright.”

            Sherlock repeats this like a mantra. I can’t see him for the paramedic filling my line of sight, but I can hear him. I close my eyes and the world fades away around me.

            “You’ll be alright.”

  

 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

 

            I know I’m in the hospital before confusion can tell me otherwise. It almost smells like home in a strange way. I know for most people the beeping of monitors and the smell of sterility is disconcerting, but it’s a comfort to me. Like the smell of 221B Baker Street is a comfort, or my old canvas army bag before I brought it back to England and the memories of being a soldier had become heavy and dark.

 _You miss it,_ Mycroft had once said. He wasn’t wrong but a person can still miss the thing that damages them.

            The image of Harry’s dead and blank stare comes to me unbidden but it is devoid of sentiment. I wonder if, like the war, I’ll come to miss her as well?

            These are the thoughts that muddle through my drugged up brain, fumbling along sluggishly while my body tries to remember how to work. Eventually I am able to blink my eyelids open to find myself alone in a dimly lit room. A light from the hall spills in through an open door but beyond it I hear nothing.

            I _feel_ nothing too, come to think of it. No pain, just a soft sort of heaviness.

            If my mind is sluggish, my body movements are damn near glacial. With a great deal of effort I turn my head to look at the monitors that blink and beep at me, and at the IV’s and wires running between us.

            I was shot.

            It’s funny to think that I was so intent on the smell of things that I’d forgotten that. But than again, morphine is a marvel.

            How long have I been here, I wonder? Long enough for my mouth to feel like a desert.

          Somewhere near my hand I know I will find a call button. If only my arms didn’t feel as though they’d been packed with wet and heavy sand. I growl in frustration and there is a gasp in response. I look toward the door, but can’t see who is standing there against the hallway light.

            “You’re awake!”

            Molly.

            She steps forward until she’s standing at my side and presses the call button for me.

           “Um, how are you feeling? I’m on break, I only just came up to see you. I’d have done earlier but you were in and out of surgery and then you weren’t allowed visitors. And the autopsy, well I had to get that done as soon as I could and Sherlock wasn’t much help. And they couldn’t take the bullet out of your shoulder, which I needed. And then there was – oh, sorry…”

            Molly’s rambling is interrupted by a nurse who gives her an exasperated look and shoos her out of the room.

            “I’ll let Sherlock know you’ve woken up,” she calls awkwardly over her shoulder. “He’ll be pleased, truly!”

            “I’d really rather she didn’t,” the nurse mutters under her breath.

            She spends the next few minutes checking both the machines and me, and by the time she’s done I am well and truly exhausted though I’ve done nothing but watch her and answer the odd question.

            Eventually there is a commotion coming from outside my door that triggers an eye roll from the nurse, but I’m already dozing off. I can vaguely make out the sound of my name being spoken earnestly at my side before sleep overtakes me.

 

 

* * *

 

  

            “Jefferson?”

            Greg nods grimly. “Looks like Moran paid him off.”

            “I genuinely didn’t think anyone working for Mycroft would have been stupid enough to think they could get away with double-crossing him.”

            I consider the way the other agents had been acting the day of the attack. They’d had no idea why I was gallivanting off to buy sandwiches when I should have been safe inside the flat. I feel like an idiot. Still, it feels strange knowing that this chapter of my life can be closed. That I actually made it out alive when I'd been fairly certain I wasn't going to make it out at all. I have to admit I thought it would be more satisfying, knowing Moran is dead. But my team is still dead, and killing Seb has not changed that.

            It doesn't really feel real quite yet, to be honest.

            “I should have known,” I lament about Jefferson but Greg shakes his head.

          “You couldn’t have known. Even Mycroft-bloody-Holmes didn’t know. Jefferson let you out as a distraction in order to get Moran in; Mycroft’s still not sure how. Or maybe he’s just not telling me. Either way, he subdued Sherlock and then waited for you. Moran might be alive now if he’d killed him instead of just knocking him out.”

            That catches my attention.

            “How do you mean?”

           “Sherlock killed the bastard – shot him dead while he was on top of you. With an illegal firearm that I am pretending does not exist, by the way.” Here he looks slightly uncomfortable. “He shot you too by accident. But he had a concussion at the time, and technically the bullet went through Moran first so...”

            That actually clears one thing up for me. I remember shooting myself, sure – but there is another gunshot wound that I haven’t been able account for since waking up in the hospital. It sits not a quarter of an inch away from my old battle scar. Once it heals, that shoulder is going to be a mess.

          Thinking of Sherlock makes me shift uncomfortably, which only makes me hiss in pain. Not only is my arm next to useless, but also my stomach has been frankenstiened together thanks to me introducing an internal organ or two to a bullet. Movement of any kind is a horrible experience at this point, and it doesn’t help that Greg is now hovering over me like a panicked sitter.

            “I’m fine,” I grunt unconvincingly. “Sit back down.”

            He complies but I think I’ve permanently scared him off.

            “Has he been in?” he asks but he’s eyeing me like I’m about to disintegrate into agony at any moment.

            “Not since I’ve woken up,” I reply, more than a little put out. “Do you think it’s about this?”

            I gesture to the wad of bandages covering my shoulder but Greg just shrugs.

         “I couldn’t say. He didn’t leave your side the whole time you were out. The nurses were at their wits end with him. It took Mycroft getting one of them to sedate him during your second surgery just to make sure he slept.”

        I can think of a reason or two apart from shooting me that might be keeping him away. But it would mean the great Sherlock Holmes has managed some form of introspection, and the thought of what that means for when we meet next is more than a little daunting.

           

 

* * *

 

  

            Pain!

            Pain is a thing, and morphine or no I want to tear out my own hair to make it stop. Instead I’m struggling to lift a stupid spoon and dip it into a bloody stupid pudding cup so that I might prove that I’m capable enough to be left to convalesce at home. None of which would be an issue if the premise for me shooting Sebastian Moran through my own stomach hadn’t also worked the other way around when Sherlock had shot me through his back.

            Sherlock who has still not been to see me.

            Not for the first time in the past week do I push that thought aside and focus on the task at hand. I _could_ just use my good arm for the pudding but the nurse is watching me like a hawk. Somehow I manage to get the last of the white gelatinous nutriment from the tray to my mouth before turning to her triumphantly.

            “You’ve had three major surgeries, Doctor Watson,” she tells me flatly. “Congratulations on conquering the pudding cup but we won’t be discharging you today.”

            I express my dissatisfaction with her response with a litany of curses and empty threats that don’t even seem to register on her no-nonsense face.

            “Doctors make the worst patients,” she replies matter-of-factly before leaving the room.

            I toss the spoon back onto the tray with more force than is necessary.

            “Hospital food not to your liking eh?”

            I freeze, eyes fixed on the wall opposite me, hoping to hell that I’ve imagined that voice. That heavy, alcohol soaked voice that sounds like car tires rolling over gravel. My mouth is clamped shut so firmly that my jaw begins to instantly ache.

            “What, John – no hello for your old man?”

            I turn to face him and he’s watching me with the same old leering face that I remember. Except that he’s aged about a hundred years since Mum’s funeral and has become somehow more unhealthy and waxy looking in the interim. My voice has left me and I’ve become immobile but for a faint tremor that courses through my body. All I can do is sit and watch him take a seat next to my bed. I can smell the reek of alcohol and stale cigarettes, mixed in with unwashed clothing from here. It is a smell I know and loathe.

            “Imagine my surprise when I see both my kids in the news twice in one week, John. Front page of one of those lousy celebrity tabloids too. The great Sherlock Holmes’ sidekick loses a sister to murder! The old girl dies and you don’t have the courtesy to call your own dad? Not you or that dyke neither?”

            “Clara.”

            He ignores me.

           “My own flesh and blood is _murdered_ and I gotta hear about it in the news? Well, I know you and me were never close but I think that’s just cold, don’t you? Then I see that it’s you that’s been shot at next. Same paper even. Know what that paper said?”

            He waits for me to guess and grins knowingly at my silence.

            “The headline said ‘Doc Watson Target Of Family Hit, Who’s Next On The List?’ And I got to thinking…well now, I’m all that’s left of me and mine that ain’t been shot at. Who might want me dead?”

           He’s just digging at me. He doesn’t care that Harry and I were attacked (doesn’t even care that she’s dead) and he can’t possibly believe what he’s read in the paper. Above all, he knows that I know this. But he _does_ care about pain. He cares about inflicting it, and maybe now that I’m all that’s left living of our small family, he senses an in. I won’t give it to him.

             I find my voice but it comes to me in a rasp. “No one in the world cares if you’re dead or alive. No one.”

             “Well that’s not entirely true John.”

            I look up and my father turns in his seat to see Sherlock standing imperiously in the door. He is stone faced and looks severe standing there in his black Bellstaff coat. Some working part of my brain registers the faint bruising around stitches that have already been removed from his temple.

             “Who the hell are you?”

              I’m mildly surprised my father doesn’t recognize him but then he was never accused of being an observant man.

             “The one person in the world who wants you dead.” Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Obviously.”

            “Listen here you arsing git,” the older man starts, rising from his seat.

            Sherlock is on him in a second, his hands gripping the arms of the chair and trapping Dan Watson beneath his osprey-like stare. He is the predator and my father is the prey.

            “You are going to leave this room, this building, this city Mr. Watson. You will do so with the utmost haste and you will do it now. If ever I see you or hear from you – or if John sees or hears from you – after this moment, I will not hesitate to remove from your person that thing which you cherish most.”

            As if to further illustrate his point, he quickly swipes the butter knife from my lunch tray and presses it firmly between my father’s thighs. I can see he’s not breathing, and I have to admit that I’m not either.

            “You have until the count of ten before I alert the authorities of both your presence here and,” he presses the knife harder, “on some truly reprehensible websites.”

            Child porn.

            Sherlock steps back from the chair.

            “One…two…three…”

            I’ve never seen the man move so fast.

            Sherlock sniffs indigently. “Idiot won’t make it to the elevator. Lestrade is waiting for him there now.”

            I would laugh at the prospect but my brain has caught up with what’s just happened and I think I might be having a heart attack. That man! That perverted bastard coming here to…to what? To taunt me? To reach into my head and pull tiny, abused John out? To drown him/me? To smother us with memories of what he’s done? To what end? My body is shaking in earnest now and I’m having a hard time sucking in air.

            “Hey, hey…”

            Sherlock reaches for my hand but I snatch it to my chest and gasp for breath. The chaotic beeping of my heart monitor only exasperates my panic and I rip off the plastic clasp from my finger. The sounds stop but are quickly replaced by people in teal scrubs, and more noise, and less air and space, and am I dying? This feels like dying! I try to make more room and violently push the lunch tray away from me, sending it clattering to the floor. I fling my arms out to push these people away too but agony twists up my injured shoulder and I cry out silently and breathlessly.

            I’m wheezing now in my effort to breathe when all of the sudden warmth is spreading through my veins. A manufactured calm settles over me and all that remains of the attack are the hot tears still streaming down my face. It’s like my tear ducts are the only part of my body not fooled by the sedative.

            Slowly the room empties of nurses until only Sherlock remains.

            “He’s gone. I’ve made sure that he’s gone.”

            I stare emptily at the ceiling.

            “He’s never gone.”

 

 

  


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

  

            Recovery takes ages. The bullet from my own gun remains lodged in my shoulder, probably forever I’m told. And my guts give me more trouble than I’m convinced they’re worth. But eventually, _eventually_ , I’m discharged from the exasperated care of the nurses and doctors at St. Bart’s.

            Greg drives me home and helps me make the daunting trip up the stairs to the flat, Mrs. Hudson hovering and worrying the whole way up. Sherlock greets me when I get there and I’m about ready to pass right out if I’m being honest. He helps Lestrade guide me to the couch where I have to close my eyes for a moment to catch my breath.

            “Give me a mo’ before we finish the trip,” I say gesturing with my thumb in the direction of my room.

            “That won’t be necessary John,” Sherlock says and I open my eyes to stare at him in confusion.

            “Why?”

            “We swapped out your bedrooms a few days ago,” Greg replies.

            “Until you’re recovered enough to manage the stairs,” Sherlock adds.

            I’m at a loss. We haven’t spoken much since he had my father arrested for possession of child pornography and my subsequent breakdown. Mostly I’d been left in the care of my old therapist to begin working on those scars going back further than the army (which I had never been inclined to share during our past sessions). I’m not sure where that leaves me now, only a few weeks later, but I’d half expected Sherlock to go back to being haughty or indifferent. That’s sort of his M.O. when it comes to emotions after all. But this is a caring gesture I hadn’t really expected.

            “I appreciate it, really,” I tell him gently.

            He just nods stiffly before turning away to stand by the fireplace. Lestrade looks between us with a raised brow.

            “Need anything before I go, John?”

            “What? Oh, no Greg. Thanks for the all the help, you’re a saint.”

            He pats my shoulder with a smile and leaves us, Mrs. Hudson on his heels.

            “Are you tired?” Sherlock asks after a few minutes of awkward silence. “Do you need assistance getting to bed?”

            I stare at him for a moment, openly until he casts his eyes elsewhere. I was right it seems. Despite the gesture of switching bedrooms he’s gone back to haughty indifference. And he’s right, I am exhausted enough to sleep but I find myself suddenly determined to settle this _thing_ between us. I don’t want to spend another minute skirting around a whole slew of emotions we would both rather ignore. But before I even get into that, there’s something else I’ve been wanting to know.

            “That day at the hospital,” I start and he seems caught off guard by the subject change, “how did you know to have Lestrade at the ready? Or about the porn?”

            He looks uncomfortable. Instead of looking at me he inspects the items sitting atop the fireplace mantel. With his back to me he says, “The day I…the day at your sister’s apartment, after you left, I had to persuade Sergeant Donovan that it was not _you_ who had committed the murder. She was convinced, given the,” he clears his throat uneasily, “ _revelations_ of your past, that you had motive. It took a direct order from Lestrade to hold off on an arrest until actual evidence was found. If it weren’t for the surveillance video of Moran, you might have been arrested before I could amass the appropriate proof that it couldn’t have been you. By the time the video was uncovered, I had already heard your account of the…abuse. I understand that given the circumstances under which I initially made those discoveries, you will be upset with me for how I proceeded with my investigation, but,” and here he looks at me as earnestly as he’s ever done, “please believe that all I wanted was to clear your name from Sally Donovan’s ledger. To do that I had to dig deeper into your family’s lives. And the further I dug, the more I found out about your father’s ongoing interactions with Harriet. So much so that he became a suspect himself before Moran was discovered.”

            I’m not angry, not really. Resigned to the sensibleness perhaps. Because I can see his logic and, despite so much of what’s been said between us, I sense the solemn truth in his words. But one thing stops me short. “What interactions?”

            Sherlock seems surprised that I have not exploded with anger and presses forward with hope clear in his eyes. I can also see he’s holding back the eagerness that typically goes hand in hand with his exposition. “Her phone records. He’d been calling her fairly regularly for years as far as I could tell. I suspect he was taunting her in much the same manner as he was you in the hospital.”

            _He’s never gone,_ I think bitterly.

            “I suspected he would turn his attention to you eventually. I admit I acted out of anger, and that I should have spoken to you about it first, but I looked into him further and discovered his current unsavory predilections. I had Lestrade put out an arrest warrant.”

            “And at the hospital?” I ask quietly.

            “Purely happenstance. Lestrade was there on a case and I saw your father enter your room. I simply informed the Detective Inspector to be ready.”

          We sit in silence as I process this information. I find that I’m really not as upset as I might have been a few weeks ago. I believe that he acted out of, what? Protectiveness? Sherlock says anger, but I know him well enough to know those two reactions tend to be mutually inclusive in his own twisted way.

          I’m not angry – I’m relieved. Relieved that _he_ is away, even if I know that he’s never really gone. Harry knew that too. It pains me to think that she’d been suffering under his presence all these years. The thought begins to take me down a dark path I’d rather not visit right now. I push it away – save it for later.

          “John?”

          I snap out of my reverie and look at him. He’s waiting for me to move the conversation forward, to snap with anger or simper with gratitude. Or maybe neither. He’s just waiting.

           I suppose there’s nothing for it but to jump in feet first.

            “We need to talk about something else,” I say slowly.

            I wonder if he can handle one more emotive brick added to the wall between us. I press on.

            “What I said before; weeks ago actually, Jesus. Anyway, I think we need to come to an understanding, or we’ll never be able to do,” I gesture vaguely to the space between us, “this.”

            “What you said?”

            He looks poised to run away.

            “Yes, Sherlock. About me and…” well this is bloody difficult. “About what I said, uh…about my feelings for you. And what you said about yours for me.”

            There, I’ve said it. My turn at emotional stiltedness is over and it’s his chance to have a go.

            “I…” he hesitates. He’s still standing all the way across the room while I’m slouched against the sofa. He seems to recede even further away if it’s possible and his face goes stony. “Well, you seemed fairly set on your position, John. I imagine it’s best if we just leave it at that.”

            Except that I hadn’t been. I’d been about as conflicted as a person could be when we’d had that fight, and for some time after. I’m not even sure where I stand now, except to acknowledge that I love this idiot despite the hurt and abandonment, and the way he’d acted about Harry that day at the apartment. But all that is just about ready to be buried and done with. I’ve only brought it up now because we need to be on the same page if we’re going to have any kind of platonic relationship moving forward. We’re flat mates for christ’s sake. What’s he doing turning this on me?

            “I would say _you_ were the one who was _set_ the last time we talked about this,” I say a little more flippantly than I mean to be.

            He just seems confused.

            “I don’t admit this often, and it pains me to do it as you well know, but…I’m not following.”

            Well now _I’m_ not following either.

            Sherlock screws up his face and shakes his head a little. “Loved, past tense.”

            “What?”

            “That’s what you said.”

            “No, that’s what _you_ said.”

            We stare at each other, and the look on his face would be comical if the world wasn’t slowly imploding around this conversation.

            “Not past tense?” I manage to ask and he looks quite incapable of answering.

            I can almost hear his brain whirring away trying to process what’s happening.

            “So,” I go on haltingly, “where does this leave us?”

            He runs a hand through his hair, looking off to the side, and answers a little distantly. “Not really my area.”

            The offhand comment takes me back to Angelo’s more than two years ago, and I let out a sort of exasperated laugh. This only makes him give me an affronted look, which actually makes me laugh harder.

            God I’m tired.

            “This is hardly funny,” he reprimands.

            “It’s actually hysterical.”

            “I disagree!”

            I lean back against the couch and run a hand over my face. We are both useless. Closing my eyes, I decide to just fucking say it.

            “Despite everything, and there is a lot Sherlock – _a lot_ of shit and anger that we need to talk about, and it won’t be pretty, but despite it all I think I love you. And I have done for a very long time. So just let me know now if you feel the same. If you don’t, then we’ll figure something out. And if you do…well I guess we’ll just have to figure that out instead.”

            He’s silent for a long time, and it isn’t until I open my eyes that I realize he’s moved. He’s right in front of me now, slowly kneeling to the floor until he is eye level with me. His pupils are slightly dilated and I can smell the shampoo in his hair, he is so close. He hesitantly reaches out and cups my face in one shaking hand. The exhaustion I felt only seconds ago is replaced with a sort of buzzing that courses through my body at his touch.

            The anger and pain that he’s caused in me slip away. Not forever, but in this moment I’m free of it.

            “I…uh, _that_ as well…” he says as I watch the cupid’s bow of his lips.

            I lean forward, ignoring the pain of my battered body, and taste the sweetness of those lips against mine.

            Slowly, slowly.

            “Good answer,” I say. 

 

  **END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finito! :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] The Gun In My Hand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8794351) by [sevenpercent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent)




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